


Marked: Part III ("Revelations")

by goodgirlwhoshopeful



Series: Marked [3]
Category: And Then There Were None (TV 2015), CHRISTIE Agatha - Works
Genre: 1930s, AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, Finally, IS HERE, Pre-War, Sexual Tension, Soul Bond, Soul-Searching, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, THE TOWEL SCENE, back again, vera x philip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-06-01 16:39:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6527890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodgirlwhoshopeful/pseuds/goodgirlwhoshopeful
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They had stood, statuesque, for a twenty seconds, simply basking in the electric energy that passed between the two of them, despite their not touching.  </p><p>That is when Vera realised the ultimate conundrum of Philip Lombard; while he made her feel preyed upon and small in his manner and his arrogance, he also left her feeling more powerful and alert than she ever had before. She was able to effect a man of such conviction in such a pronounced fashion…and it left her with quite an ego. </p><p>Perhaps that was the way to combat a man like that, she thought. Beat him at his own game…with his own armour.  </p><p>Soulmate-Identifying Marks AU in canon with the BBC's 2015 adaptation.<br/>(Split into parts for easy reading / to allow feedback on sections).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marked: Part III ("Revelations")

**Author's Note:**

> MASSIVE THANK YOU TO MY BETA/GENERAL IDEA BOUNCING SHIELD @evennstars <3 She is the reason this gets out to you making any sense.... This story has come such a long way (It's now almost 40k words!) so I'm so thankful to have my writings peeps to be my lifejacket so I don't drown in it.....
> 
>  
> 
> This chapter contains a curveball... See if you can catch it... A certain someone's telling porkys;) 
> 
> Now for the serious, boring bit:  
> I do not own/claim to own either Christie's characters or the BBC's adaptation. This is a work inspired by the wonder of both these materials and is for non profit only.

III  
  
_"Revelations"_

* * *

**P. Lombard**

When the blithering doctor had forced them all awake with his girlish _wailing,_ even Philip was surprised at the slaughter that greeted them on the kitchen floor: Rogers, cold as ice, disembowelled, his innards spread around him with a level of brutality Philip had seen only carried out by Africa’s barbaric negro tribes. He had not expected whomever _cowardly_ poisoned Marston’s glass to be capable of a violent, intimate crime such as this. 

He had been the fourth person to die, preceded twenty-four hours earlier by the General MacArthur, whose head had been bashed in as he sat admiring the shoreline. It was then that it became clear to all those who remained that the death of Mrs. Rogers in her sleep, then Marston over a whiskey, were never of natural causes. The military man’s blood splattered over the rock face served as a very real reminder that there was a killer on Soldier Island. 

Philip felt satisfied and proud, despite everything, because it all meant clever, _demanding_ Vera _was_ right _._

When Ms. Brent had flailed through the door to tell of the General’s demise, Philip had been the first out to inspect the body, while Blore, or _Tubs_ as he liked to call him after that first night, tailed him closely like a ridiculous lapdog. The scene told of a careless kill, a _cowardly_ kill really, since the poor man had been hit from behind. Philip, along with Armstrong and Tubs, wrapped him up in a throw and carried him back to the house. By the time they reached the hallway, Vera, Judge Wargrave and Ms. Brent were poised anxiously at the foot of the staircase waiting for them. 

As they dropped the body to the stone floor with a thump, muscles burning for rest, the General’s head rolled, exposing the bloody gore of his death before the ladies. 

Instantly, Philip’s hand shot out toward Vera. “Don’t look!” he called out suddenly. The warning came without thought and they left him perplexed as to where it had come from. _Why on earth had he said that?_

Later that day, as darkness fell with a raging rainstorm, all the remaining guests of Soldier Island gathered in the library to keep an eye on one another. Philip noticed before anyone that Vera was missing - the Judge too. He frowned and promptly excused himself to check her room, only to find it empty. He considered searching for her, the others be damned, but decided against it. Tubs and Armstrong were already suspicious of him since that morning when he had hastily pulled out his revolver upon mistaking Rogers for the killer. Instead, he simply made his way back to the library and seated himself by the window, across from others and privately wondered where she could be. 

His questions were answered not long afterward, when Vera appeared through the door of the library, sodden from head to toe. The Judge held her around her middle as her body seemed to shudder and shiver violently of its own accord. Possessiveness shot through Philip at the contact, which he had not been expecting. He swallowed it with the self-restraint he had mastered years ago and focused instead on considering _why_ it was Vera had been wondering around enough to almost catch her death. Perhaps he had been wrong about her; perhaps Vera Claythorne was a trifle more emotional, and _careless,_ than he had thought her to be. 

Her skin was so pale it was almost translucent and blue, while her lovely cream blouse was _literally_ translucent as stuck to her like a second skin, her brazier nearly visible. Philip’s gaze, like magnets to their north pole, were drawn inevitably to the sight and felt his trousers become considerably less comfortable. 

“Quick, Lombard! The blanket – behind you!” 

He leapt up at the Judge’s words, despite the fact they were an order. (He did not follow orders from anyone…but he found himself retrieving said blanket without lag or complaint. It was for _Vera,_ he justified to himself – _not_ the Judge). 

“Here,” Philip murmured as he reached her side, ignoring the Judge’s offer of a hand to pass the blanket along. He wrapped it around her back, letting his thumb graze her shoulder and upper arm as he did so, unseen by the rest of the room. She took the layer gratefully, but did not look at him. 

The temperature of her skin made him fantasise about touching her hot again with his hands and his mouth. For a considerable percentage of the rest of the evening, he thought of little else, (despite the fact there were many more life threatening issues that should have demanded his mental attention). It _was_ justified though, he supposed. After all, a man was entitled to _some_ distractions when there was a killer hunting him down.

Fast forward to the next morning and Philip considered this while he was attempting to scrub Roger’s guts out of the wood store floor. He was _slipping_. How was it that this killer had been able to move to kill _again right under his nose?_ Perhaps Miss Claythorne was an unwelcome distraction after all. 

“So, she’s right – it is the poem!” Armstrong breathed from behind him earlier that morning as he was busy leaning over Rogers’ corpse, inspecting it. As Vera hurried toward the kitchen, Philip had been momentarily taken aback by her appearance – her hair jagged and straight, unkempt, while her eyes were now fully shadowed by dark, black rings. So much so was her visual deterioration that suddenly his own lack of sleep (and obsessive lookout posture from his armchair) suddenly seemed insignificant in comparison. She took one look at the remains of poor Mr. Rogers and began retching onto the floor behind her, the sight of guts evidently too much for her. _Funny_ , Philip thought. He was almost surprised to see such a reaction in people… He often forgot that most _ordinary_ people were not used to such things. 

“But, it’s _fucked, Mr. Unknown Owen,_ because ‘six little soldiers boys played with a hive - a bumblebee stung one and then there were five’ and there _is_ no hive here!” The Doctor’s tone was becoming truly fucking hysterical, so much so that Philip raised his gaze from the body in utter disbelief, looking up disapprovingly from under his dark brows. _Was_ this man in fact a _man_ at all? 

“So – so what are you going to do now, Mr. Unknown Owen?! You’re fucked! You’re fucked!––“ He was screeching, shouting at no one, as though this killer, Mr. ‘Unknown Owen’, would suddenly reveal himself.  His tone was so unbearably shrill that Philip felt his fists clench at his side, ready to shut the man up if he carried on for one more moment. 

Ironically, he did not have to, as they all watched Vera Claythorne suddenly lash out and strike the hysterical _woman_ of a doctor right across his face – therefore proving she was more of a _man_ than Armstrong would ever be. The Doctor was silent then, as shocked as the rest of the room – aside from Philip, of course. He simply found himself smirking, proud of her for doing what they all wanted. _Adda’ girl._

“Now, get dressed,” she asserted calmly, despite the Doctor’s look of sheer disbelief. “We will all get dressed and I will make coffee… Ms. Brent, shall we?” 

* * *

  
T. S. Rogers [Thomas, Simon]  
_DOB:  December 3rd, 1902_  
  
_Place of Birth: Southend, London, England_  
_Status: Unmarked_

 _– Deceased –_  
_August 11th, 1939_

* * *

  **V. E. Claythorne**

 

At near half past eight in the morning, since they were all awake from Armstrong’s hysteric outburst, Vera found herself obsessively making coffee for anyone that would take it. She, herself, barely drank any, realising the last thing she needed was a stimulant with her current state of jitters. 

She had been washing dishes in the kitchen with Wargrave, enjoying the serenity of the mundane, until, that is, she realised she was alone with him, in a room full of kitchen utensils. _Sharp_ kitchen utensils. 

She wasn’t sure what it was, but she felt an urge to check on Ms. Brent, finding that her feet moved of their own accord toward the library. Opening the door by her electric lamp, she was somehow unsurprised to find her dead, in the armchair where Vera had left her to her coffee. Her knitting needle was skewered into her neck, but her posture could almost be confused with sleeping, as though whomever had stabbed her with it had been able to grab it from her and still stab her without struggle. 

Next thing she knew, Vera was in the dining room and, as she expected by now, another soldier figure was missing. Equally calmly, she then made her way to the gong, deciding that Armstrong’s method of announcing the killer had struck was surprisingly poetic, she struck it five times to signify the fifth death amongst them. The others came running from their respective locations, all looking fearful and bewildered. All but Philip, that is. _His_ eyes sparked with a burning eagerness, as though he was a raging bull stood before a scarlet flag. 

* * *

   
**E. J. Brent [Emily, Joyce]**  
_DOB:  October 27th, 1889_  
  
_Place of Birth: Tattershall, England_  
_Status: Marked_

 _– Deceased –_  
_August 11th, 1939_  


* * *

 

 Together, they lifted Ms. Brent to her room and laid her to rest on her bed. Philip immediately withdrew just enough to light himself a cigarette. Spellbound, Vera watched the masterful nonchalance of his movements. He poised his cigarette in such a relaxed manner, despite his hand still being stained bright scarlet with Rogers’ blood. 

In that moment, she finally understood the primal nature beneath the unperturbed, smooth exterior of the man; the blood on his hands almost seemed to _suit him,_ as ridiculous and atrocious as that sounded. It was his _warpaint._

“Well, I suppose, with no Rogers, I should think about lunch,” she said unevenly, watching Philip as he stared into space in Ms. Brent’s direction, his eyes narrow, clearly lost in thought. 

“I could eat a scabby ‘orse,” Blore confirmed heartily, his East-end accent laying on thick. 

At such a comment, Vera blinked, put out by his enthusiasm, considering they were stood before a corpse that was _still warm._ “You’re _actually_ hungry?” 

Blore seemed bemused by her offence. “Well… its ‘eavy work – dealing with Rogers. _You’re_ the one suggesting lunch…” 

Her arms were firmly crossed against her chest as she attempted to restrain her agitation. “ _Only_ because that’s what one _does_ at this time of day!” she snapped, fidgeting on her feet. “No, I’m not hungry – how could you _possibly_ be _hungry_?”

“Oi, _you_ …” Blore murmured lowly, clearly attempting to be threatening. “Don’t go implyin’… or casting aspersions.” His eyes shifting between her and Philip, as though testing them both on their suspicions. “I got nothin’ to do with this! I’ve got nothing to do with any of it! Just because I said I was hungry – I _am_ hungry – it doesn’t prove a single thing!” Vera was already bored with his blithering, because while he could be telling the truth, all his talking seemed to do is add weight to the argument against him. She rolled her eyes as the ‘th’ in ‘thing’ became an ‘f’ in Blore’s speech, not quite believing that the pale, blotchy man opposite her, prattling away, was of the same species as the dark Irishman to her right. 

“I’m going to get dressed,” the policeman dismissed as he stormed from the room in his blood-soaked pyjamas. Vera shifted on her toes, not sure where to look as her eyes flitted from wall to ceiling to floor. Philip took another drag and seemed only minimally bemused by Blore’s behaviour, having not moved a muscle. His eyes sort out hers from his perch, a frown now settled between his brows – as though to say, _‘Do you have any idea what that was about?’_

Then suddenly, Blore was back, storming back into the room as though someone had lit a fire behind him. His eyes were tight with as sudden rage and Vera felt her spine straighten as she held her ground. Blore’s face contorted with the sudden fury in him as he spoke and Vera had to look down at the floor to keep from stepping forward and striking him. “The _whole_ morning, dragging Rogers around, clearing up _guts –_ without so much as a cup of tea to wet me whistle – and _you –_ You look at me like I – “

Philip regarded the Detective with the same impassive look of disappointed that he always had…but sudden raised his hand toward the man. “ – _Calm._ _Down,”_ he chastised lowly, almost like Vera once had to Cyril. Remaining perfectly still, Vera snapped his eyes to Philip then. He was _defending her?_ Actively safeguarding her? 

Blore evidently did not like it. His face was stoic, rage ticking his lip. He fidgeted then, as though debating whether the threat in Philip’s telling off was a reproach worth taking seriously. He clearly decided it was not, as in the next moment Blore raised an aggressive index finger at her, having looked for a moment before as though he was about to leave the room again. “You’ve got some _front_ , love!” His voice was a strange combination of a harsh whisper and a hiss and Vera felt the venom in it from across the room. She stood her ground and squared her shoulders as he continued his criticism. “You’ve got some _right_ brass neck!”

Finally, he stalked away and she could breathe deeply again. Raising her eyes to Philip, she noted he was sinfully sucking on his cigarette as before. He had his eyebrows raised, as though amused by what he had just witnessed. “Don't go downstairs on your own – not with those two,” he advised, inhaling as he suddenly made his way to quit the room himself. 

Vera frowned, suddenly uneven on her feet as she realised she was unsure of who it was he was referring to. _Wait,_ she thought. _Who? What did he know?_ “What, Wargrave and Armstrong?” 

 _“Mm-hm,”_ he hummed in agreement as he reached the door, unable to speak as his throat was filled with smoke. At the threshold, he turned back to her and suddenly she noted his bare chest for the first time. The thick, dark hair across his sternum was clearly visible as he had, no doubt _purposefully_ , tied the gown very loosely at his hips. The ungodly _bastard_ looked at her with that same calm nonchalance, despite the fact that they both knew she struggled not to be distracted by his exposed skin. “You wait up here for me,” he murmured confidently with a nod, smoke billowing from his lips and settling into the air to linger along with the words he left behind. 

The weight of the statement left her winded, weighted to her spot beside Ms. Brent’s corpse for a long moment as she attempted to decipher it. It was the first time he had ever explicitly confirmed whatever it was that seemed to entwine the two of them as allies…but did he _mean_ it? It could easily be a ploy, to draw her in and make her trust him, only for him to kill her in her sleep. Somehow though, she doubted it. Something told her that if Philip were the killer, he would be proud of that fact. 

She moved to leave the room anyway, not liking the idea of allowing herself to become a sitting duck simply because an attractive man said so. Despite her slight suspicion of the Irishman’s intentions, she found the seductive promise that had lingered in his voice spiked hope within her that she _was_ going to survive this. With Philip, she _could_ survive this… If, _of course_ , he was not in fact the killer himself. 

But if he was, part of her knew whatever fate lay waiting for her was predetermined by a higher power by this point. 

As she teetered on the metaphorical edge of whatever abyss was threatening to swallow her up, she steeled herself to outsiders so they would not see her struggle. (Lack of sleep really had begun to take it’s tole, she realised, when she began to see Cyril round dark corners). She held the bannister tight as she descended the stairs as she was permanently shaky, high with the adrenaline of feeling like prey being hunted. 

She considered what Philip had said again just as he came bounding down the staircase behind her, in a suddenly flurry of anger and panic, shouting that everyone had to gather _right now_ because _someone had stolen his ‘fucking gun’_. She considered the suggestive promise that had shadowed his words to her. _You wait up here for me._ In that moment, she smirked to herself. _Oh, Mr. Lombard… What if I get to you first?_

She seated herself on second to bottom step of the staircase and leant against the bannister, watching him as he stormed past, furious and on a rampage of accusations against everyone – except her, that is. The conversation went round and round in circles – an accusation, followed by a denial; a reputing accusation in defence; another denial. She began to feel sick with it, pressing her fingers to the bridge of her nose as she attempted to halt the onslaught of an oncoming headache. _Why did men always have to be so, god-damn assertive? They may as well all just have a pissing contest!_

“It was _locked,_ which _means_ there must be a _master key,_ ” Philip continued dryly. 

The Judge seemed to agree. “Rogers must have had a master key.”

Instantly, of course, Armstrong had to pipe in, loudly and with a tone that always sounded as though he was either about to scream or cry. “You two dealt with the body!”

“And you _found_ it!” Philip countered, halting his barefoot pacing on the tiled floor with both his hands poised on his hips. “Or _did_ you?” He neared the man with the precision and intimidation of a bird circling its pray, his voice dropping an octave. “You _shrieking_ like a woman – was that a bit of _amateur dramatics_ , was it?” 

Philip’s desired effect worked like a charm, as Armstrong’s frustration at being accused and insulted all at once meant his voice rose to a whine and wobbled as though he was _indeed_ going to cry like a stereotypical woman. “I did _nothing_ to Rogers. I didn't take any master key, we don't even know if there _is_ a master key and we only had your word that the gun was stolen! _You_ could've taken it.”

Vera paused. She hadn’t considered that. This _could_ be a rouse…but as she observed the tick in Philip’s jaw and the agitation in his pacing, she decided against it. He appeared to grind his teeth as his voice dropped even further until Vera almost had to strain to listen. “Why would I steal my own gun?” 

Armstrong’s face was a picture of “I don't know why you'd do anything, Lombard! I don't know why you killed _Rogers_ or Miss _Brent_ or _MacArthur – “_  

“ – I didn't kill them,” Philip replied mutedly, as though he had been asked the sum of two plus two. 

“Well, you _would_ say that, wouldn't you? Just like you'd say that your gun was stolen!” 

Vera rolled her neck as her eyes trained on Philip during this exchange. She had decided not far into this entire ordeal that Doctor Armstrong was perhaps her least favourite person she had met on this island, if not in her entire life _._ The tone of his voice made her skin crawl in its pathetic breaking and cracking and his constant jittery behaviour and hysterical outbursts put her on such an edge herself that she wished she hadn’t simply slapped him that morning. That, and he was even more rude about women than anyone else there. Suddenly, she was certain that the man disgusted her more than she was of anything else. 

As Philip neared Armstrong, almost coming nose to nose with the man, Vera watched Armstrong step back, despite Philip’s slightly shorter and certainly leaner frame. “You really are a _first-class_ , five-star, solid gold _fucking_ moron,” Philip scorned in a deathly tone, though he seemed to preninciating his words for maximum embarrassment. 

“ _Please!”_ cried the Judge. “The lady, hm?” Vera wanted to smirk at the Judge. He really had no idea of her true nature, did he? She was not a pathetic fragile rose petal for _God’s sake!_

“Double bluff!” came Blore’s sudden outburst. 

“ _What_ , Tubs?” Philip questioned, looking as though he was truly losing his patience. 

“Why you would steal your own gun – Armstrong’s got a point. It's all riddles and games, smoke and mirrors – _double bluff_.” 

“You were the last one down,” Philip’s tone is suddenly one of realisation as he regards the smaller man with the deepest of suspicion. “The last one! _Ages_ behind everyone else! What – what took you so long?” 

Vera regarded the Judge as his face changed in this moment. All the allegations had previously seemed to be insignificant to him but she saw that this one made him turn his head in Blore’s direction… Philip _was_ right. Everyone else had been in the kitchen by the time Blore had appeared… 

Vera watched the London man squirm. “I don't care to say,” he said, looking away from them. 

Philip evidently tasted blood as he cornered Blore against the wall, his speech coming faster and faster with frustration. “ _You_ killed Rogers! _You_ took the master key! You went to bed – you made sure all of us were downstairs – then you got in my room and took my gun – You have my gun, _you little prick! – ”_

“Lombard!” chastised the Judge for his language, _again._ Vera inwardly thought it was rather ironic that while he was chastising the Irishman for cussing in her presence, she was feeling desire course through her with every new slur of filth that drawled from his mouth. 

“For _heaven's_ sake. I never killed Rogers and I ain't got your key or your _sodding_ gun!” 

“Then what took you so long? If you weren't in my room, _stealing_ my gun, then why were you last down?” 

“I was in the bloody _lavvy_ , if you must know! _Constipated_.” 

The echoing hallway is suddenly quiet as all took in what they had just heard. Armstrong let out a giggle first, only for Vera to suddenly become unable to keep her own at bay. Even Philip cracked a smile. 

“Bound up something rotten. Sat there in a muck sweat,” he carried on. “So it _weren't_ me. It could have been any of us. _Any one of us_ could have had the key. _Any_ one of us could have the gun. It is the only way to be sure.” 

Suddenly, there was tense quiet amongst the five of them again as Blore slowly began to climb the stairs, very much in Detective Inspector mode. “We ‘ave to search everyone – without clothes, o’ course.” 

 

Thus, that was how it came to be that Vera Claythorne found herself in Mr. Lombard’s room for the first time. They had searched Armstrong’s room first, not finding said gun, but all realising very soon that he had indeed been telling the truth about his Mark. (It stood out in it’s dark chocolate colouring on the fair, freckled skin of his left shoulder blade, clearly spelling out the initials ’N O’). Next came the Judge, and while she could have been mistaken, Vera frowned at the sight of him in a dressing down, his nakedness all but covered in comparison to the other men. She couldn’t help but feel he was hiding something. She searched and she _searched_ with glances when he was not looking, but she could not seem to see a Mark on him on the small amount of skin exposed. Hadn’t he said he had always had the Mark of his wife? 

As the four of them set to work searching Mr. Lombard’s room, Vera noted that the arrogant, _wicked_ Irishman stood, naked as the day he was born, for all of them to see. He had not wrapped his towel around his waist fully as Armstrong, overweight and self-conscious as he seemed, had done. _Oh_ _no_ – Philip Lombard’s towel was situated _so low_ on his hips that Vera was sure it could slide no lower without a certain thick patch of hair being revealed. She busied herself searching the chest of drawers in the corner and chastised herself throughout for even _wanting_ to look at him. He was a _narcissist,_ quite _obviously._ He _loved_ himself so much that he stood that way to feel like a caveman beating his chest. 

While she was well aware of the arrogant reasonings behind his display, Vera could _feel_ him watching her and found she could not concentrate on looking for the gun, even if it were that her life would later depend on it. She straightened up and decided to inspect him in this near-naked glory, nonchalantly glancing over her shoulder as though she had finished her search. 

In the next moment, his gaze shifted, from eyeballing Armstrong in a manner Vera could only compare to the male primates in London Zoo, to catching hers as she admired him. She drank in the sight of him, watching her watching _him,_ leaning with such ease and confidence against the oak door, hips thrust slightly forward, bare skin slightly tanned. His bare chest was as defined as she had suspected it to be from the brief glimpses she had stolen while he was wearing his dressing gown; the dark hair she had admired spread from high on his sternum by his collarbones all the way down over his firm and raised pectorals, forming a thick, tantalising trail down his delineated abdominal muscles until it disappear under the scarce cover of the towel. 

As they shared a second of silent communication, the look in his eyes said very little, as he no doubt intended to keep her guessing, but Vera _knew_. They said: _Well, well, look how the tables have turned, Miss Claythorne. What’s this?_ You? _Staring at_ me? 

She dropped her gaze after a moment, down and to the left, in a manner that was exaggerated but resembled how bashful _proper young ladies_ were taught to react, should they ever be caught inspecting a potential suitor. His gaze continued to bore into her, evidently encouraged by her defiant display in response to his own, and it made her nervous. Philip Lombard struck her as a man that always knew what he wanted but also how to get it…and she suddenly felt as though she was now his prey. 

Whether she _wanted_ to be his prey or not was debatable. Her mind told her it was a ludicrous idea, that there was still _every_ possibility that he was the murderer and that he could kill her in her sleep, should they be intimate in his bed… On the other hand, her libido told her all such worries were secondary. It clawed at her composure and sanity, like a dog whining to be released. She had to take many a breath to quash it and even then, it simply lay dormant, festering and angry at being ignored.  

“Right – now you, Miss Claythorne.” As the Judge dismissed the search, Vera made her way to her room to change. With each step she took to leave the room, she felt ever the more anxious, but also _charged._ The pull she felt within her to move toward his body felt magnetic, as though there was a cosmic force with the weight of gravity fighting back against her self control. She looked at the floor until she was but a few feet from him, not being able to resist raising her eyes to his as she reached the door. His were sharp, alert, _hungry,_ and waiting for her, locking eye contact with her in an instant. The skin on the back of her neck felt hot under his scrutiny as she felt an undeniable tug deep in her loins at his closeness. 

That is when she realised the ultimate conundrum of Philip Lombard; while he made her feel preyed upon and small in his manner and his arrogance, he also left her feeling more _powerful_ and alert than she ever had before. She was able to effect a man of such conviction in such a pronounced fashion…and it left her with quite an ego. _Perhaps that was the way to combat a man like that,_ she thought. _Beat him at his own game…with his_ own armour.  

As she pulled on her red wool swimming suit, she struggled not to be swallowed by the memories of the last time she had worn it: the day she let Cyril die. 

It wasn’t until they met again in the hallway, while the other men searched her room, that she caught sight of the Mark on his arm, peeking out on the inside of his toned bicep. 

They had stood, statuesque, for a twenty seconds, simply basking in the electric energy that passed between the two of them, despite their not touching. For a moment or two, she pretended to ignore him as he stood, still clothed in but a towel, staring at her. When she had turned to him and undone her gown, showing him the red swimming suit that had come to symbolise all that was sinful about her life, she had smirked at him and the way his pupils dilated at her exposed skin. They introduced themselves with their first names, as though meeting for the first time with a brand new state of intimacy seeming to exist between them. Vera watched as all the most damnable of scenarios played out behind his eyes as they did not stray, never mind blink. 

He wanted her and she wanted _him_. There was nothing else in existence in that moment. 

In fact, if it hadn’t been for what happened next, or the other souls in the next room, she was certain he would have right there against that very wall. 

Abruptly, she felt a burn and scratch settle into her skin again, much like the momentary sensation she had felt that first day, on the dock. It almost knocked her for six, leaving her breathless and hot. 

As the Judge came round the corner, Vera went to scramble away from Philip and act nonchalant. She had to get away to inspect where it was this pain and itch was coming from. She wrapped her arms around herself and, upon the pressure against her ribs, felt the friction and itch flair again. Willing herself to stand straight, Vera aimed to make a bee-line for her bedroom. 

Just before she could do so, she caught sight of something dark on the inside of Philip’s arm and frowned, tightening her gown around herself. _A Mark?_ She felt ill at the thought of it because it meant the kinship she felt in her assumption that he too was Unmarked was all false. _Philip had a Mark?_ As she walked away her discomfort was forgotten, as she just could not make sense of it. Completely knocked sideways by the revelation, she did not notice the itch and burn on her skin subside and disappear. _How_ had she got him so wrong? Philip surely _couldn’t_ have a Mark. He surely _couldn’t_ be like them?

* * *

**P. Lombard**

 

After their sudden moment of chemistry in the corridor, Philip was acutely aware of two things: not only was he entirely and completely _ensnared_ by Miss Claythorne, but he had to make sure they both survived, because he knew he would never to meet another woman like her. A woman who not only saw what he was and rose up to it, but a woman whose evils were comparable with his own. 

“Well, well, Miss Claythorne,” he’d husked as she had exposed her bathing suit to him in the middle of the hallway. _Finally_ she had dropped her masquerade and he had been half-tempted to laugh and rejoice, if it weren’t for the fact she would strike him for doing so. 

She smirked at him then and he realised it was the first smile she had given him since they had met. He very much liked the villainy in it, the way her eyes spoke decibels louder than any words she had ever spoken aloud. “Mr. Lombard…” She had whispered, as though challenging him to make a move, if he dare. 

If that were to be, he realised, then such formalities what _had_ to go. “ _Philip_ ,” he corrected her, never once breaking eye contact. She had been watching his body since the moment she had set eyes on him in nothing but that towel and he knew by the way her eyes trailed his movements that she was just as affected by him and he was by her. Perhaps _that_ was why he introduced himself with his Christian name – or perhaps he just wanted to hear her start using it. Either way, he crossed a boundary in that moment, one he had never intended to. _Hell –_ he was a _contract killer_ , for _Christ’s sake;_ a lapsed (never-was) Catholic with a skill for torture. He was hardly someone highly suited for Vera Claythorne; the haunted, high maintenance woman that she was. 

That being said, there had been something between them since they met and it blossomed in these few short moments of quiet. 

 _“Vera,”_ she countered huskily, ever the temptress he had always thought her to be. It was an acceptance, a nod to his offer for more, for an alliance.  

It was alien to him, to not only _want_ a woman in such magnitude but to actually want to know her, past her body.  Admittedly, his original interest in Vera had stemmed purely from the enticing sight of her legs and stockings, but now he found himself looking out for her, finding excuses to speak with her, lingering to watch her reactions. 

If she had intrigued him on the first day, she now had him lured entirely. 

Though he would never _tell_ her so, of course.

**Author's Note:**

> I've LOVED all your comments so far – but especially the long, rambly ones. They're the kind I love to leave people and they really inspire me and assure me that people are getting this.... So please, if you have but a second, click that lil love heart and then tell me why you clicked it............ LOVE Y'ALL xx


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